I had a hard day yesterday and felt like I was about to crash. There was no apparent reason for it. Possibly numerous small triggers but nothing the average person can’t handle without some minor annoyance.

My children are currently distracting me, as children do and are ruining my train of thought as I am writing. Don’t be surprised if I start typing about teenage mutant ninja turtles.

Will update when I get the chance.

If I learn to blog from my phone it will be great.

I was prescribed medication yesterday. mood stabilizers that should start working in 2 months.
My therapist (as opposed to the psychiatrist) doesn’t like the idea of medication. At all.
She has a point when she says diet and exercise help but find the part about “joining book clubs”, etc. . . . to help with my social problemsa bit dismissive and condescending.

I also find that I tend to accuse people of treating me this way when they are not. I really can’t tell.

She does also agree on getting a neurological evaluation. When asked for a psych eval (since I still don’t know if there is a diagnosis in process or already made) she told me that “I can do that” but I have not heard anything else on it.
She seems to believe more in the holistic approach and is a bit anti-diagnosis in my opinion. (Just based off of varying comments she has made throughout my sessions)

Today’s session seemed to be a complete waste of time. Too many awkward silences.

Perhaps my fault but I am not an active speaker nor do I know exactly how to answer the question “how are you feeling today” appropriately.
Seriously, I hate it.
Is that all that the therapists do, is sit there and say “how does that make you feel?” I don’t FUCKING know!! That’s why I am in therapy.
Maybe I should change therapists but I don’t want to go through all that shit with my insurance.

The altar was draped in purple such as tradition called.

the incense burned the atmosphere

her favorite color that we would wear.

and if an artist would paint this assembly he would hardly stroke his brush.

The bittersweet doxology was swallowed.

the color purple on my mind.

Good memories were as such the people that attended

The desperation of a few and old friends that sat and spoke for lunch.

~

Sweet fruit covered in bitter chocolate

So much I tried to understand

I always preferred the sweeter kind but took what was placed in my hand.

~

We finished our food and wine later that evening

bitter, short, and sweet was the time.

We sat in her painted room together

Yet how quickly we replaced the belongings and moved the furniture around.

The memory left violet paint on the wall.

~

We passed around old trinkets

Old pictures and her paintings that were on the colored wall.

no proof of anger or disdain

just purple

in the boxes

that were sitting on the floor.

~

Ironic was this color

that surrounded her each day

Even with her sight she would never see any happiness it gave. . . .

~

or the purple shirt I wore

On her funeral that day.

he pushed me down and threw me on the ground.

I don’t remember if it hurt

I just remember the shock.

I may have provoked him

I don’t recall

small and wiry

dingy and dirty

He demanded I let him rest on me

his back cold and boney

against my knees on the bus

he ordered me around and I naively followed

for a little while

but I don’t remember what he said

He died the other night in the electric chair

He CHOSE it for his end.

so violent

I felt bad once for stealing a pen

but to him stealing a life was the same.

The clouds create the fog but you can’t see all the clouds themselves (You just know it’s there) or anything beyond them.

That is what she was like to me.  I could only see her face and feel her voice but couldn’t see much beyond that.

I couldn’t see who she really was

nor could I see anything else around me.

This fog was like some sort of medication that when inhaled was the best pain killer, leaving one with a feeling of euphoria.

The side effects though . . .

were worse.

I came down from the medication only to experience the cold sickening hangover of reality.

I missed a stop sign once while driving in a thick fog. I drove up a hill and found myself, heart pounding behind the wheel, in someone else s front yard.

I want to share a particular one that I posted on myself (anonymously) with the following title:  “I Am a Lesbian Married to a Man”.

* 119 people clicked on the “me too” button.

* 67 personal stories were shared on-line

When I first posted there were only 8 stories.

I challenge you to go there and type in your secret and then see how many other people share what you have experienced.

I practically gave him permission.  The fact that he asked me for it threw me for a loop.

I have this strange combination of feelings; 

Freedom and heartbreak.  It’s bittersweet.  I feel like I’m going to cry but I can’t. (No tears for him or anybody for the matter.)

 I feel betrayed but I also feel happy and relieved.

I am angry about the double standard.  I would never be able to do this.  I also admit (which I hate doing!) that I am a little jealous but not for the reasons one may think. 

He can find someone so easily.  Women like him.

It’s a bit confusing and strange.

he purses his lips out

and kisses me

He makes me laugh sometimes

such tender moments

these times are rare

beneath the pain

above I stare

A reminder of what I have

A reminder of what I don’t

How wonderful that she would be

She sticks her lips out

and kisses me

my mind it wanders

constantly

and I imagine his lips are hers

When he yells

and he accuses

in my mind

she heals my bruises

and takes me in her arms.

When it rains

and it does so often

I crawl between the sheets

my coffin

It sounds as if she whispers to me.

the sound of the rain is now so sweet.

The heat of his body

I imagine is hers.

and as I lie there my body stirs.

my mind in circles

relentlessly

restraining me away from sleep

but when I reach out

he is there

How grateful I should be

and lonely I should not

I reminder of what I have

A reminder of what is not.